Having Tea with Me
by Emerald-eyes
Summary: While alone in the cabin, Morton has an argument with himself. One-shot.


Disclaimer: This humble author owns not the greatness that is 'The Secret Window'. She doesn't own Morton Rainey, but boy she wishes she could share that lonely old cabin with him…on cold winter's nights. *drools*

Notes: Okay, my first Secret Window story. It's a one-shot and I probably won't be doing another, maybe. If people like it and the way I write, that is. I wish you could all see this in size eight Trebuchet MS, it looks very snazzy. This is such a tiny piece of fiction; I really hate myself for not being able to make it longer. Anyway, read on!! 

--*--

**Having Tea with Me**

A one-shot, by Emerald-Eyes.

--*--

Morton was being slapped with writer's block.

Morton Rainey leaned comfortably back into his chair, a chipped green plate sat next to him, upon it was a bare ear of corn. Mort smiled at the corn, his dark brown eyes flashing with inspiration. How he loved the corn when it was lightly buttered and salted. He had the seeds ordered down from Mississippi, where Mort was told the best corn grew. And so he grew his own. He couldn't go into town anymore, and the place - Mort forgot the name – where Sheriff Dave Newsome had told him to do his shopping didn't stock any of his favourites, so he ordered most of his food in. 

He ran his tongue over his braces, feeling the pieces stuck in there. He frowned, 'This just won't do.' 

But Mort didn't want to leave the laptop, and the empty word document. Just in case. Writers block had smacked him hard. He was going to sit there, until something came up. But he was going to have a smoke. He opened the top desk draw, and shuffled his hand around, his hand enclosed around something cold and square and he drew it out. He stared at the photo frame for a few minutes, he raised a finger and it traced the shape of Amy's shoulders. 

He was hit with a pang of longing; he shook his head and threw the frame forcefully behind him. He sat down hard on the chair, wincing as he heard the glass shatter. He pulled his hole-filled almost-rainbow like robe, feeling a shiver go through his body. He began shifting, not able to feel comfortable, and he was feeling cold, so very cold.

And he wasn't alone. 

Mort stood up, he spun round and was faced with himself. He calmly regarded the mirror image, "What do you want?"

The mirror image gave a wicked smile, "Become used to me, have you?" 

It was possibly true; Mort couldn't remember where he had had this experience before. He couldn't place a finger on it, but it had happened. How was he supposed to react? Perhaps this was a dream, or a trick of the eyes. He took off his glasses and placed them on the desk behind him. Mort then shook his head and rubbed his eyes, growing a tad frantic when he realized the smirking bastard was still there, he asked again, a little more forcefully, "What do you want?!" 

The damn image just smiled. Mort pulled back his fist and threw it forward; the image caught it and threw him off balance. Mort landed on his back and began shuffling away on his back, the image walking jauntily, his hands behind his back, smiling – no – smirking all the way. Mort grasped something to pull himself up with, and was met by a hand from himself. Well, the image of himself. He stared at the hand cautiously. 

He pulled himself up using the corner of his desk, still staring at the tanned, weathered hand. It was his hand, rings and lines and scars and all. But it was attached to someone else. That smirking prick was his darker side, Mort decided. And the dark side should be trodden with gentle care. Mort steadied his body before glaring at himself, "You're real enough, I suppose. Why are you here?" 

The image laughed, "Everyone forgets something sometime. Sometimes it's very important, and all they need are reminders." 

Mort raised an eyebrow and gaped at the confusing mirror. He put out a hand and pinched the other Mort. When the image responded with an ow, Mort knew he was dealing with something he should get away from. So he bolted past the image and down the stairs. Upon stepping onto the bottom step, he was face to face with himself. Mort pushed past the image, spinning round and he yelled, "What the hell did I forget?" 

The image turned and stared out a window that faced the small field of corn, "How long did it take to plant?" 

Mort shrugged and eyed the image, "You should know. You are me after all."

The image turned round, that damn smile still plastered on his face, "I make up a part of you, and a part you happily forget."

Mort turned to the window, "I forgot how long that took. I forgot the day I planted it." 

Mort realized this was becoming an almost docile conversation, and he needed answers from the loony part of himself. He circled himself, and spoke to him in a low, dangerous voice, "Tell me what you know." 

The image mocked him, "You should know. I am you after all." 

Mort stopped circling and stomped his foot and yelled, "Just fuckin tell me!" 

His mirror image clucked his tongue, "Tut tut Morton, temper. That thing always got you in trouble." 

Mort felt himself getting extremely frustrated; it was like dealing with a smug two year old. He refused to reel in his temper, not for this man. If he was really him, then he knew what Mort was capable of. Or at least, he seemed to. Mort wasn't capable of anything major, but when he needed to, he could really throw a punch. The image snapped at him suddenly, "You're capable of quite a bit more then a punch." 

Mort raised an eyebrow in confusion and the image's angry features settled into a lazy smile, "Oh, that's right. You forgot." 

Mort was getting answers, finally, and he was going to get them all. What did this damn image know? Why did he torment him so? His frustration reached a fever pitch and he grabbed the image's shoulders' firmly and screamed at himself, "Tell me what you know GODDAMIT!" 

The image stared at him for a long while before answering in all seriousness, the joking was off, and Mort was finally getting his answer. The image shook Mort's hands away from his shoulders before stepping back and pointing at Mort with an outstretched arm, clothed in his worn robe, his eyes wide, "Murderer." 

Mort blinked and stepped back, before crumpling to his knees. He felt a rush around his ears as images, scenes and blood…so much blood filled his mind's eye. Amy's face…oh God, her sweet, beautiful face with a terrified look on it. A look directed at him, a look he never ever wanted to see. Heads…knives…screwdrivers. So much, too much. He looked up at his image desperately, "Its true, isn't it? It's my fault they're all dead." 

The image shook his head before saying with finality, "Its Shooter's fault. Not yours." 

Mort began rocking back and fourth, everything speeding back to him. He looked up at the corn field and whispered, "And it will become a mystery, even to himself." 

Mort's eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted, his head hitting the wood with a sickening thud. 

His terrified house-keeper told the sheriff later, "He was crazy…saying something about somebody named shooter and mysteries…and he was screaming to an empty room." 

---*---

End. 

Thanks for reading; I'd appreciate your review. If you liked it, say something. It's not expected of you, it's just so helpful and really good to hear. Just no flamers please, leave constructive criticism on how I can make it better and not just yell at me, because I have issues and it just hurts so bad inside…and the therapy bill is already so high. ^.^

Thanks again for reading!!


End file.
